


The Eye of the Storm

by thecarlysutra



Series: Storm [1]
Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Car Sex, How the hell did this become a relationship?, Injury Recovery, M/M, Maverick is clueless, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: An injured Iceman is sent to TOPGUN to recuperate.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: Takes place at TOPGUN in 1994.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
       _everyone says you have a heart of ice  
       but that’s only half true.  
       you have a heart of ice  
       cream._  
             —a softer world

 

Miramar, California, 1994

Maverick stared at the roster of new students like looking long enough might rearrange the stats. Shit, pickings got slimmer every year.

April poked her head in his office. “Commander, there’s a Captain Burgess for you on line one.”

Maverick frowned at the phone. “A captain?”

“He said he wants a favor. Or he’s doing you one.”

“You’re usually not so imprecise, April—”

April’s jaw tautened indignantly. “I’m not being imprecise; that’s what he said! He wants a favor from you; that, or he’s doing you one.”

“Huh.” Maverick picked up the phone. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Lieutenant Commander, afternoon. This is Captain Burgess, USS Farragut. Long story short, I’ve got a downed pilot, damned good one, in sickbay. Can’t put him back in the cockpit for the better part of a year, and it ain’t right to make a man take his shore leave recuperating. Thought maybe you could put him to work; I heard you’re hurting for instructors since Viper retired.”

“I’d be happy to have a damned good pilot on my staff. When can I expect him?”

“Monday, oh-eight hundred.”

Maverick smiled. “We don’t start ’til nine; tell him to get the extra hour’s rest. Your damned good pilot got a name?”

“Kazansky, Thomas. Call sign—”

“Iceman,” Maverick said, and let out a breath.

Maverick finished making arrangements with the captain, and then hung up the phone. He looked over the roster again, but the names and numbers all blurred together, and he put it away. So. Iceman was returning to TOPGUN.

***

Maverick spent the weekend avoiding the thought of Iceman reentering his life, but Sunday night he found himself spending a long time at his ironing board, putting perfect pleats in his uniform.

After he had gone back to TOPGUN, he hadn’t given Kazansky much thought. He’d been busy settling into a new job as a flight instructor, and trying to make things work with Charlie. At least one of them had gone okay, and nearly ten years later, Maverick was still teaching at TOPGUN and still living alone, with nothing but his motorcycle to look after. That was fine with him. He was married to the job.

Still. Having given him much thought or not, Maverick was sure Kazansky was as big a pain in the ass as he ever was, and he wanted to put his best face forward.

***

The Iceman cometh early. Maverick arrived on base at oh-eight hundred, unable to sleep, and not twenty minutes later, April was announcing Commander Kazansky’s arrival.

Maverick swore, and then, seeing April’s expression, immediately apologized.

“Show him in.”

Maverick stayed on his feet to greet Ice; for this reason, it took him a moment to see him. He had expected him at eye-level.

Ice came in at about waist-level, rolling himself in unassisted. His chest had more bars than the Vegas strip, and his uniform was, as always, perfectly pressed. The wheelchair gleamed bright as Ice’s shoes, like he routinely polished both.

“God,” Maverick breathed.

Ice’s lip twitched, wryly. “It’s just Commander. I haven’t been promoted that many times, yet.”

Maverick felt his face go hot. Wait, Commander? Did that mean Ice outranked him? Son of a bitch. “Shit, I mean—sorry, man. How long are you—is it permanent? Shit, I mean—”

Ice patted the side of the wheelchair the way you might a horse’s flank. “It’s only ’til my hip heals. Doc says six to eight months.”

“Shit,” Maverick said again.

Ice shrugged. “It happens. So, you’re running this joint now?”

Maverick nodded. “Five years.”

Ice coughed out a laugh. “God help us.”

Maverick’s temper flared. Was it okay to hit a guy in a wheelchair? “We’ve been doing fine here without you.”

The grin slid right off Ice’s face. “Yeah, about that. Thanks for the opportunity—”

“Top Gun is always guaranteed a teaching position,” Maverick said, the words cold and clipped.

“Yeah, well, I appreciate it,” Ice said. “You can’t imagine the hell it’s been, not being in a plane.”

The joy and accomplishment Maverick felt at Ice’s humility dissipated. Since he’d learned how to fly, he hadn’t been separated from the cockpit for more than a few days; the idea of not being able to fly for the better part of the year tore a wrenching hole in his gut.

“It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, Commander,” he said.

Ice smiled.

***

It turned out Ice was an even bigger pain in the ass in the classroom than he was in a plane. He was strict, fastidious, and ruthless. And, worst of all, he was nearly always right.

The students hated him, or they did until rumors of Ice’s service history started permeating the student body. The numbers—missions flown, confirmed kills, Bronze Stars—kept getting higher and higher, until they were frankly ridiculous and the students were suitably in awe. Maverick himself hated him, but only when they taught together; he found that, if he left Ice to his own, Ice didn’t need any handholding and Maverick could catch up on his paperwork and book a little more time in the F-5. Frankly, when he didn’t have to see Ice, he was the perfect employee and Maverick wished he had one or two more just like him.

Maverick was feeling so magnanimous after an afternoon in the sky that he caught up to Ice on his way to the parking lot.

“O Club tonight?” he asked.

Ice looked up, raised an eyebrow. “You buying?”

“You wish.”

***

Ice met him there. It was hard for Ice to hang at the bar, so they got a table. Maverick ordered a beer; Ice frowned over the decision for a moment before ordering water. On the rocks.

“Meds,” he said, almost an apology.

Maverick laughed. “Yeah, not like you to go against orders. Even if they’re doctor’s orders.”

“Hey, I went to Navy hospitals; the doctors were officers.” The waitress arrived with their drinks. Ice took a sip of his water and looked around. “Place hasn’t changed much.”

“Nope. And that’s the way we like it.”

“Still, some things change. I heard Blackwood moved on to DC. Some big shot consultant or something.”

Maverick took a long drink. “Yeah. Good for her.”

“You two don’t keep in touch?”

Maverick didn’t say anything. Ice studied the contours of his glass.

“What about you?” Maverick asked finally. “You ever settle down?”

Ice laughed. “Me? I’m married to the job. And we’re very happy together.”

Maverick’s eyes lingered over the spokes of Ice’s wheelchair. “Looks like you’ve been having problems.”

Ice shrugged. “Every relationship has its ups and downs.”

***

“I’m fine to drive,” Maverick slurred.

“That bike’s a death trap when you’re sober; there’s no way I’m letting you drive drunk.”

Ice was driving a rental, a sporty, black Mazda number. He got in first, and got the chair settled in the back before letting Maverick sit down.

“How can you even drive?” Maverick asked as Ice leaned over him to shut his door.

Ice scowled. “I’m not paralyzed, you idiot.”

“If you’re fine, then why can’t you fly?”

Ice’s frown lines deepened. “I’m not fine. Buckle your seatbelt. I’m not getting a ticket because you like to live dangerously.”

“What does that mean, ‘I’m not fine?’”

“God, you’re mouthy when you’re drunk. Shut up.”

Maverick slouched in the slick vinyl sling of the Mazda’s passenger seat, and watched the lights outside the window bob and smear against the blackness.

“You’re more fun when _you’re_ drunk,” he said. “Or so I imagine. Do you ever get drunk, or is that too human for the Iceman?”

Ice hissed out a breath from between his gritted teeth. He tapped the wheel with his right hand.

“I wanna see you drunk,” Maverick continued. “I want to see you shit-faced. All your ice cold façade pulled down.”

“Watch it,” Ice said mildly. “Sounds like you want to take advantage of me.”

Maverick barked out a laugh. “You wish, Kazansky.”

Ice didn’t say anything, his eyes on the road. The neon illumination of storefront signs and streetlights lit his face oddly in the dark shuttle of the Mazda’s front seat.

“You know, I heard things about you, back when we were both at TOPGUN,” Maverick said.

Ice’s jaw tautened. He kept driving.

“You were a real heartbreaker,” Maverick continued. “Is that why you don’t fly with Slider anymore? You break his heart?”

“You want to walk home?” Ice asked quietly.

Maverick ground his head into the headrest. Ice’s tone was even, but his hands were clenched on the wheel. Ice cold, nothing.

***

Maverick woke the next morning to the sound of jet engines screaming overhead. Hardly a new phenomenon, but this morning it was accompanied by a throbbing pain at his temples. He forced his eyes opened, then winced at the daylight.

He thought about calling in sick, but he wouldn’t give his hangover the satisfaction. If he couldn’t work hung over, he was getting too old.

His desk was piled high with papers when he got in—not his favorite way to begin the morning. Maverick sat down and began to go through them, one tedious report at a time. He was maybe twenty minutes in when the clearing of a throat brought his head out of his work.

Ice was sitting before his desk. Shit, how had he rolled all the way in without Maverick noticing? Maverick pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remember last night’s conversation; Ice looked drawn and annoyed. What had he said to piss Ice off?

“You look like shit,” Ice said.

Maverick’s shoulders slumped. He took a drink of his coffee, and winced; it was ice cold. “Look better than I feel. What do you want?”

“Thursday afternoons.”

“Huh?”

Ice enunciated clearly. “I need Thursday afternoons off.”

Maverick tossed the papers to his desk and rubbed wearily at his eyes. “What, you got a standing appointment with a hooker or something?”

“Yes,” Ice said dryly. “You nailed it.”

“Look, Kazansky—”

“You’re in the air Thursdays, anyway; you don’t need me.”

“I—”

“I have to go to rehab,” Ice said.

Maverick frowned. Blinked. “You’re drying out? That’s why you can’t fly?”

Ice sighed, massaged the bridge of his nose. “Physical rehabilitation, Maverick. So maybe I can walk again.”

Maverick felt his cheeks heat. Idiot. “I, uh—yeah. Do that. Thursday afternoons, all yours.”

Ice nodded. “Thanks.”

He looked back, halfway to the door. “Take some aspirin or something, Mitchell. No use punishing yourself.”

 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	2. Chapter 2

Maverick found Ice at the end of the day.

“Hey, I need a favor.”

Ice looked up expectantly.

“Will you take me to the O Club? I left my bike there.”

They ended up staying; Maverick ended up drinking. It had just been one drink, and then suddenly Ice was shepherding him out of the bar, a hand on him to keep him upright, and they were tearing through the parking lot, moving fast because the skies had opened up and rain poured out, and they were getting into the Mazda because Maverick was too drunk to drive again.

Maverick panted. He rested his head against the window.

“Hey, Iceman,” he said. “Why didn’t you ever ask me?”

“Maverick.” Tone like a rattlesnake’s warning cadence. Maverick had never been very good at heading warnings, however, and pressed on.

“You were the playboy of our TOPGUN class; why didn’t you ever ask me?”

“You took out our teacher; I think that makes _you_ the playboy of our class.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And I’m not going to. You’re drunk. At least, I hope you’re drunk.”

They didn’t speak for a long time. Ice’s jaw was tense; his eyes were on the storm raging outside the glass. The rain beat down all around them, making the car seem a separate world, a little island of protection in the midst of the downpour. The eye of the storm.

“Look,” Maverick said. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”

Ice didn’t say anything, watching the rain beat down on the windshield.

“I want us to be able to work together,” Maverick continued. “You’re a good teacher.”

Ice didn’t say anything. Maverick sighed, and turned to go, his hand on the door handle.

“Sorry,” he said.

Ice reached across him, grabbing Maverick’s hand around the door handle, stopping him from opening the door. So close, it struck Maverick how broad Ice was, how much bigger than him. How much bigger his hands were. So close, he could smell Ice’s aftershave—smelling sharply like winter, like aspen and fresh-driven snow—could feel the heat rolling off him. Maverick found he was surprised to find Ice so warm; what a human weakness for Ice to have, to be warm-blooded.

“I think you overestimate your ability to piss me off,” Ice said.

Maverick grinned. “Yeah, well. I’ve never hurt for confidence.”

“Cocky,” Ice said, but his voice was devoid of the sharp edge the word should have carried.

“Occupational hazard.”

Ice cracked the smallest of smiles. “You calling me cocky, Mitchell?”

“Nah. I’m just saying it helps, is all.”

Maverick realized he was starting to sweat. Ice was still looming over him; Ice still had his hand on Maverick’s.

“Ice,” he said softly.

Finally, Ice drew back. Maverick felt dazed, like he was recovering from a blow. He could still smell the wintry world of Ice’s cologne, could taste it like pine needles and hoarfrost on his tongue.

Ice settled back behind the steering wheel. “I’ll take you home.”

His hands—God, his hands were so big; they had enveloped Maverick’s—went to turn the keys, to guide the wheel. Maverick wrapped his hand around Ice’s at the ignition, stopped his movement.

“No, wait.”

Ice waited. He looked at Maverick. “What?”

Maverick tried to conjure the words, but his tongue felt clumsy, too big for his mouth. He looked at Ice, the fine form of him, the lovely angles of his face, all lit blue beneath the sheets of rain.

“Maverick . . .”

“Shit,” Maverick said, and kissed him.

Ice tasted like winter, too, like peppermint and snow and evergreen. At first he was stiff, but then Maverick pressed against him, his hands falling to Ice’s body—shoulder, chest—and Ice relaxed, and he kissed Maverick back.

Ice was a good kisser. He may have been Top Gun, his name inscribed on that golden plaque, but Maverick was pretty sure he was better at kissing than he was at flying. Or anything else, for that matter. Ice kissed with his whole body—moving against Maverick’s, his hands threading through Maverick’s hair. And, impossibly, Ice completely surrendered when he kissed; he closed his eyes, relinquishing control. Maverick couldn’t have been more surprised by anything, anything except the fact that here they were in Ice’s car, and they were making out like a couple of horny teenagers.

One of Ice’s hands moved lower, started fooling with the buttons on Maverick’s shirt, and Maverick negotiated the steering column to get into Ice’s lap. For the first time in his life, he was almost too tall, and he had to bow his head to avoid smacking it into the Mazda’s roof.

There was a little lever on the side of Ice’s chair, and Maverick pulled it, sending the driver’s side seat—and the both of them—down, nearly to the floor down. Ice gasped into Maverick’s mouth, and Maverick laughed, and he repositioned himself in Ice’s lap. He could feel Ice hard under the material of his pants; the rumors had been true.

Not that Maverick wasn’t hard, himself. He put his hands on the top of Ice’s seat—leverage—and moved his pelvis against Ice’s, thrust his erection against Ice’s. Ice moaned, and for a moment, his movement skipped on the track, his lips stalling against Maverick’s, his hands losing purchase. Maverick almost laughed again; the Iceman, so pitifully human.

“Don’t tease,” Ice gasped. His hands found Maverick’s waist. Ice pulled at him, guided his movement. Soon Maverick was rocking steadily in Ice’s lap.

“Bossy,” Maverick breathed.

“ _Tease_ ,” Ice said again, stretching the word out like well-worked taffy. The way Ice said things, it was like they had extra meanings, meanings only he knew, meanings only he could impart.

Ice was flushed, his eyes dilated; he was mussed, and it was beautiful. No matter what else happened, Maverick had this image of him, and it would be worth it. Maverick wondered how wild he looked; his chest was heaving, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. Ice’s hands on his hips, driving him, driving them both home. Bossy motherfucker. It was good, though, it was beautiful, and soon Maverick was arching back, and he hit his head on the ceiling, hard, as he came.

Maverick fell against Ice, panting. Ice idly teased Maverick’s hairline with his fingertips, and together they waited as their pounding pulses beat themselves back to normal.

“Fuck,” Ice said. “What the hell was that?”

“Good,” Maverick said. “That was good.”

Ice chuckled. His palm rested on the nape of Maverick’s neck. “Yeah.”

When their bodies felt like their own again, Maverick moved back to the passenger’s seat. Ice righted his chair, and he put on his seatbelt, and he started the car.

Maverick looked out into the driving rain. “Where are we going?”

“I’m going to take you home.”

***

His home, he’d meant. Ice’s home. Maverick had thought maybe they’d given him Charlie’s old place, the place they used for visiting instructors, but Ice lived further out, in a neighborhood Maverick had never been to before. It was a one-level, small and pleasant, sparsely decorated.

Ice gave him a brief tour, taking him to the kitchen for a drink.

“Those beers were here when I moved in,” he said. “You’re welcome to them.”

Maverick grabbed a bottle from the fridge, and looked around the kitchen.

“Who lived here, a midget?” All the cabinets and appliances were only a few feet off the ground.

“Guy in a wheelchair,” Ice said, rolling across the linoleum. “That’s why they set me up here; I can reach everything.”

Maverick felt his cheeks heat, but maybe Ice didn’t see; the kitchen was dark. “Oh. Right.”

Ice nodded down the hall. “Bedroom’s that way.”

He said it like he said it every day, and Maverick followed like there was nothing terrifying in the sentiment, abandoning his beer on the kitchen table. Somehow, it went unspoken that their business in the car was unfinished.

Ice turned on a bedside lamp, and that was it; the room was low-lit butter yellow, making everything seem warm, languid.

Ice waited before him, studying Maverick’s face. It was hard to bear the scrutiny of those ice blue eyes boring into you; Maverick turned his focus to the wheelchair.

“What . . . should I . . . ?”

Ice grunted. “Let me.”

He rolled the chair beside the bed, and then, using his arms, hoisted himself up onto the mattress. Maverick climbed over him; Ice took in a sharp breath.

“Careful,” he said.

Maverick rested his hands gently on Ice’s hips. “Which one is it?”

“The right.”

“What happened?”

“We got shot down; I fractured my pelvis and the femoral head. Three surgeries; I’m mostly metal in there, now.”

Maverick wondered if he knocked on Ice’s hip, would he hear a metallic clang? He managed to control himself; there were more important things at hand.

Maverick kissed him, slowly. Ice cupped the curve of Maverick’s jaw in his palm, held him close. With his other hand, he slid loose the buttons of Maverick’s shirtfront.

They broke for air, Ice pressing closed-mouth kisses to the corner of Maverick’s mouth, to his jaw line. Ice’s hands were tangled in Maverick’s shirt; they were loosening Maverick’s belt, slipping around his hips. Maverick pulled Ice’s shirt off over his head, and then unbuttoned his fly, unzipped him. He started to gently inch Ice’s pants down. Ice sighed; Maverick looked up, met his eyes.

“Am I hurting?” he asked.

Ice threaded his fingers through Maverick’s hair, not completely gently. “I’ll tell you.”

Ice kicked off his shoes and socks, and Maverick worked Ice’s pants off. There was some scar tissue, silvery and flat like scales, like sharkskin, on Ice’s right side, right above his hip. Maverick ran his fingers over it, and Ice hissed, but didn’t say anything. Maverick followed the sharkskin down beneath Ice’s shorts; he peeled the material away, baring Ice to the air.

The scars went down Ice’s thigh, and around his back. Maverick ran his hand over the ruined tissue. He looked up to find Ice watching him.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” Maverick removed his hands; Ice’s mouth twisted into a moue. “I didn’t say stop. I’m a big boy.”

Maverick put the flats of his palms on Ice, traced the contours of his body like he was trying to learn him in Braille. Ice watched him, his gaze cool and even.

Maverick looked up. “You’re thinking I’m a pussy, right? Stalling before the main event?”

Ice answered softly. “I was thinking I’ve never been touched like that before.”

Maverick traveled back up Ice’s body to kiss him. Ice divested him of the rest of his clothing, pulled him down so they were laying together, side by side and face to face.

Ice looked at Maverick for a long moment before speaking.

“Turn over,” he said finally.

Maverick could feel butterflies panicking in his abdomen, but Ice’s tone didn’t leave room for negotiation. Maverick turned onto his other side, now facing away from Ice. Ice slung an arm around him, pulled him close, Maverick’s back to his chest. Ice kissed Maverick’s shoulder, held him in a vice grip against him.

“You ever been fucked, Maverick?” Ice asked, lifting up the last syllable of Maverick’s call sign so it was sharp and curved.

Or maybe that was just Maverick’s imagination, because suddenly he was sweating, a cold sweat, and his head was swimming. He could feel Ice hard against him, and when Ice said “fucked,” Maverick knew he meant something very different from what he did with girls, something very different from what he’d ever done.

Maverick managed to shake his head. For a moment, Ice said nothing, and Maverick listened to the sound of his breathing, felt the movement of Ice’s chest against his back. It was like rocking with the tides. Then Ice’s lips tickling his ear as he whispered, “Do you want me to?”

Maverick moaned. He closed his eyes.

He nodded.

They made love like that, on their sides, Ice’s arm wrapped around Maverick, holding him tight against him. It hurt at first, but then the pleasure was like nothing Maverick had ever experienced. And Ice was inside him, and all around him; Maverick could never remember making love like that, so close, so intractable, like Ice was a part of him. They moved together; they moved as one.

***

Afterwards, Ice slept on his left side, with no weight on his bad leg, the same position he’d been in when they’d . . .

Somehow, they’d gotten turned around, and Maverick was now behind Ice, turned toward his back. He watched Ice’s breaths slow, the freckles on his shoulders, the knuckles of his spine. He was really beautiful.

Maverick reached a hand up, patted the sharkskin scar of Ice’s hip, gently. Ice, too near sleep, made a small questioning noise, but didn’t move.

“Nothing,” Maverick said. “I was just thinking.”

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Ice murmured.

And then, because he could, Maverick leaned over Ice, resting the weight of his body against Ice’s, and kissed him. Ice let out a small, surprised noise into Maverick’s mouth, and then kissed him back, his fingers threading through Maverick’s hair.

***

Maverick dreamt, as he often did, of planes. This time, though, it wasn’t a fighter jet, but a commercial aircraft. Maverick, in civvies, sat in his window seat, seatbelt strapped tight around him, and watched rain assault the tiny, plastic windows. The plane rocked and shook; the captain came over the intercom.

“We’re experiencing some turbulence . . . passengers are advised to fasten their seatbelts.”

Maverick gripped the armrest tightly, and closed his eyes, praying for it to end soon.

Maverick opened his eyes. The bed was shaking. He sat up; for a moment, he was unsure of where he was—where was the plane?—but then the features of the room became familiar, and he remembered. Ice. He was at Ice’s place.

The bed was shaking. He looked over to Ice; Ice was shaking. He was on his back, quaking so hard the headboard rattled, his jaw clenched tight. Maverick put a hand on his shoulder and Ice yelped, the way a cornered animal might, and sprung up, his eyes flying open.

Ice sat up in bed, panting and dripping sweat. His eyes were spooked, faraway.

“What the hell was that?” Maverick demanded.

Ice didn’t answer. “Meds,” was all he said, and he motioned to the bedside table.

Maverick pawed through the drawers until he came up with a prescription bottle. He’d read as far as, “take as needed for anxiety” before Ice snatched it from his hand and dry swallowed two of the pills.

“What the hell was that?” Maverick asked again.

Ice wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Sometimes . . . sleeping is hard.”

“No shit. What the hell _was that_?”

“Nothing,” Ice breathed. “Just a nightmare.” Then, gentler, “Come back to bed.”

He extended his hand. Maverick wanted to be angry, he wanted to fight until he had an answer, but he looked at Ice’s face—he looked so tired—and couldn’t manage the will to fight any longer. He went back to bed, falling into Ice’s embrace.  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	3. Chapter 3

Maverick spent the night. When he next woke, he woke alone. At first he worried—had Ice had another fit?—but then he heard pans clanking in the kitchen. He padded out to find Ice making breakfast.

Maverick poured himself a cup of coffee, and slid into a chair. “You cook?”

Ice shrugged. He flipped his omelet. “Growing up, I mostly took care of myself.”

Maverick studied the contact paper covering the table. “Oh.”

“My father was in the service; he was away a lot.”

“What about your mom?”

“She died when I was a kid. Cancer.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Ice shrugged again, said nothing. He cut the omelet in half, plated it.

“Gonna need your help, here.”

Maverick brought the two plates and a handful of silverware to the table. Ice rolled the wheelchair over to the table and hoisted himself up into a chair.

Maverick bit into his omelet. “Hey, Kazansky, this isn’t half bad.”

“Thanks. Maybe I should have been a chef.”

“You’d be so fucking bored.”

“I know it.”

Maverick looked at him. “Are you bored now? At TOPGUN?”

Ice considered a moment. “No. I mean, I’d rather be flying, but I’m not bored.”

“Were you bored before? After you got hurt?”

“Like you would not believe. It was like torture, being tied to a cot in sickbay. For a while, I wished they’d killed me.” He looked at Maverick. “Are you bored? At TOPGUN?”

Maverick concentrated on cutting his omelet into tiny, identical pieces.

“Sometimes I am,” he said finally. “It’s not like being out there. But on the whole, I like my job, and I’m good at it.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“I regret a lot of things,” Maverick said sharply. Ice’s cheeks colored. Surprise and guilt stabbed Maverick in the gut. “I didn’t mean—”

“You were drunk last night,” Ice said tightly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Bullshit. I wasn’t that drunk, and,” he said, realizing the words were true as they left his mouth, “I wanted you. I wanted the hell out of you.”

A slow smile spread over Ice’s face.

“Mutual.”

***

They left for work early. Maverick had thought they would just ride in together, but then Ice took him to the O Club for his bike.

“You could have brought me after work,” Maverick said.

He realized as the words left his mouth how it would have looked if they had come in together, and flinched.

Ice didn’t say anything about it. “No, I couldn’t have,” he said. “I have therapy this afternoon.”

“Thursday,” Maverick said.

“Thursday.”

The O Club was closed; the parking lot was empty but for the two of them. Still, Ice looked around before leaning out the window to kiss Maverick goodbye.

“Drive safe,” he said. He rolled up the window and drove away.

Maverick frowned, and straddled his bike. He watched Ice’s car fade into the horizon before starting up the engine.

***

The VA was dead. There were a few guys in the front lobby playing cards or watching TV, but no one so much as gave Maverick the eye. He followed the signs to the rehab room and found it empty but for Ice.

Ice was on his feet, holding onto a balance bar on either side of him. He was taking small, labored steps, and Maverick could tell by the tenseness in his shoulders that his upper body was holding a lot of his weight. Looking at the strain in the muscles in Ice’s arms, the look of pain and concentration on his face, Maverick felt like he had walked in on something intimate, and turned to go.

“Maverick?”

Maverick turned to find Ice looking at him. He took a step forward, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Sorry. I thought—”

“Come in.”

Maverick walked through the maze of mats and exercise equipment to Ice. Ice waited for him to reach the balance bars, and then lowered his head and continued resolutely with his exercise.

“You’re looking good,” Maverick said. “Vertical and all.”

“Thanks.” Ice came to the end of the balance bars. He put his weight on his left leg, pivoted, and started walking back the other way. “What are you doing here?”

There was no malice in the words, but neither was there warmth; it was purely utilitarian.

Maverick studied his shoes. “I thought, you know, maybe . . . you might want to go to dinner? With me?”

He looked up to find Ice grinning. “You asking me on a date, Mitchell?”

“Well, I, no—maybe.” Ice raised his eyebrows. Maverick surrendered. “Yeah.”

Ice made it to the end of the bars, and stopped, balancing himself on his left leg and his arms, his right leg bent, not holding any weight. Maverick watched a bead of sweat roll down from Ice’s dark blonde hair down the lovely angles of his face, the tensed muscles of his neck. God, he looked good.

“I’d love to,” Ice said finally.

He motioned to the wall, where his wheelchair was folded up and leaning. Maverick retrieved it. He puzzled for a moment how to open it up; Ice waited patiently, watching him. Once Maverick had figured it out, he rolled the chair to Ice, who slid himself into the sling. Ice looked back at Maverick until Maverick took the chair’s handles.

“Where to?”

Ice pointed to the hallway. “Showers. I have a date tonight; gotta look my best.”

Grinning, Maverick pushed the chair down the hall.

***

It had been a long time since Maverick had been on a date. Like, a proper, cloth napkins kind of date. It wasn’t that he didn’t see women; it was just that they never seemed to get to this point.

Ice, he was sure, didn’t care where they went, but it mattered to Maverick. It was important that he do this right.

It was a cloth napkins kind of place, plush and dark with deep, recessed booths covered in fine old leather. Maverick asked for a booth in the back. Ice parked his chair by the side of the table and then lifted himself into the booth, and he sat closer to Maverick than maybe he should have, but the illusion of privacy was so great it was like they were alone in the restaurant.

Maverick ordered a good bottle of wine, and even convinced Ice to drink some of it, doctor’s orders be damned. Ice had enough wine that he flushed, and Maverick suddenly found his pants constricting; it was the same way Ice looked in bed—blushing, eyes sparkling.

Maverick slid his hand onto Ice’s knee. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

Ice laughed into his glass, but Maverick was sure his blush became more pronounced, and for once, he had nothing smart to say.

They were into the second bottle of wine when Ice said, in lieu of nothing, “I think I liked you too much.”

Maverick stopped twirling his capellini. “Huh?”

Ice sighed. He put his glass down, met Maverick’s eyes. “You asked me, before, why I didn’t—why I never asked you, back at TOPGUN. I think . . . I think I liked you too much. And you were straight—I thought—and if— _when_ —you rejected me, it would have hurt too much, messed up my head, and I . . . I wanted to win. So. I never asked you. It’s not like you thought, anyway.”

“How? Because the you being gay part seems to have panned out.”

“Yeah, well . . . but it’s not like I’m sure you heard. The thing is, you sleep with one guy, he gets his feelings hurt, and then suddenly, you’re the town slut. Do you know what I mean?”

“That Slider has a big mouth?”

“It wasn’t Slider, but yeah, you get the point.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I just . . . I didn’t want your feelings hurt. I didn’t want you to think that I slept with everyone at TOPGUN but you, because that isn’t true.”

Maverick smiled. “Thanks, Iceman.”

Ice looked hesitant, maybe even worried, something Maverick had never seen.

“So we’re okay?” Ice asked.

“Better than.”

***

Ice’s wheelchair wouldn’t fit on the bike, so they drove separately to Maverick’s place, Ice following slowly behind in the Mazda. Maverick waited in his driveway for him to catch up, hands shoved into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

“You drive like an old man!” he crowed when the Mazda finally pulled up.

“You drive like a maniac!” Ice yelled at the same time.

Maverick got the wheelchair out of the car and waited while Ice transferred himself to it. Ice followed him up the drive to the house.

“So this is Casa de Maverick, huh?”

“I’ll give you the tour.”

The mistake with the tour was making the first stop the bedroom. That was as far as they got.  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	4. Chapter 4

Ice spent the night, but left early, citing an appointment with his physical therapist.

“Didn’t you just go to therapy yesterday?” Maverick mumbled into his pillow, but it was still dark out, so that was as much fight as he put up.

Ice was late for work, which verified his alibi in Maverick’s eyes; Ice wouldn’t just not show up unless he had a damn good reason. Right before Ice’s first class was about to begin, there was a quiet knock on Maverick’s door.

He looked up from his paperwork, and was surprised to find Ice at eye-level; he was supported by crutches, but standing, keeping the weight on his good leg.

“Where’s the chair?” he asked, rising to meet him.

Ice smiled, and crutched his way into the room. “Chair’s history. I graduated.”

“To crutches?”

Ice shrugged. “A win’s a win.”

“How’s your leg taking it?”

“I’m gonna be sore tomorrow for sure, but today I feel good.”

“Good,” Maverick said. “How would you feel about celebrating?”

“Positive. What do you have in mind?”

***

“The carnival, Mitchell? What am I, your high school sweetheart? I haven’t been to the carnival since before I had hair on my chest.”

“Just wait; the carnival’s magic. I always score after taking a date to the fair.”

Ice rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. They made their way slowly through the crowded grounds, Maverick staggering his gait to walk beside Ice on his crutches.

“Tunnel of Love?” Maverick asked.

Ice gave him a frosty look. “Not on your life.”

Maverick grinned. “You have no sense of humor.”

“You have enough for both of us.”

Maverick was able to convince him to get on the Ferris wheel. Ice pulled the lap bar down—Maverick rolled his eyes; rules were rules when Ice was around—and leaned back in the seat, the wind ruffling his hair as the car was lifted into the air.

Once they were high off the ground, Maverick leaned in to kiss him. Ice pulled away.

“Someone’s going to see us,” he hissed.

Maverick sighed, and drew back. Then something struck him.

“You know what they won’t see?” he said, and stuck his hand behind the lap bar and unbuttoned Ice’s fly.

Ice’s cheeks hollowed. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. No one can see us.”

“I—” Ice said, but then Maverick slipped his hand into Ice’s shorts, and he shut up.

Ice’s eyes went heavenward, but Maverick found it far more rewarding to watch Ice. Ice leaned back in the car, his cheeks heating, his lower lip trembling. Maverick worked on him with his hand, watching Ice’s hands tighten to white-knuckled on the lap bar.

Their car was reaching the top of the Ferris wheel; the whole of the carnival spread out before them. At the horizon, the sun was setting, painting the sky orange and red. The sunset reflected in Ice’s pale eyes, making them appear bronze. His heated cheeks and molten eyes; Ice looked anything but cool in this moment. His chest heaved and he thrust up into Maverick’s hand, and Maverick felt like he had that day in the VA, like he was seeing a secret side of Ice, something special and hidden that no one else knew about.

***

Maybe it was what had happened on the Ferris wheel, but Ice relaxed enough about what people would say to let Maverick help him with his crutches when they left the car, let him rest his hand briefly at the small of his back.

“Always get lucky taking your date to the fair, huh?” Ice said softly, smiling.

Maverick laughed.

They walked through the crowded fairgrounds. Maverick stopped for a funnel cake, and promptly spilled powder sugar down his front. Shortly after, he dragged Ice to the bumper cars, where he victimized him mercilessly.

“That wouldn’t have happened in bumper planes,” Ice muttered, pulling himself back up on his crutches.

“You’d be dead, then, Iceman.”

“I didn’t even know you knew _how_ to drive a car.”

“Sure, I can. The bumper kind.”

They passed a shooting gallery. Rows of tiny tin duckies with targets painted on their bellies. Maverick paused.

“How’s your aim?”

Ice smirked, his injured pride forgotten. “Twenty bucks says it’s better than yours.”

“You’re on.”

Ice rested one of his crutches against the booth while Maverick shelled out a few dollars to play. Then they both picked up the little rifles, cocked them against their shoulders.

Maverick squinted, aimed, pulled the trigger. His first shot completely missed the duckies in his row.

“Been a while since I held a gun,” Maverick admitted.

Ice missed his first shot, too; it made a hollow, metal noise as it grazed the duckie’s head. “No shit. This’d be easier if we could use missiles.”

Maverick laughed. “We’d take out the whole fucking booth, Ice.”

Ice shrugged. He took another shot; there was a loud ping, and one of his duckies fell back.

“Shit,” Maverick said, and concentrated on his own game.

For a while, they stayed pretty close. Then Ice knocked down three in a row and Maverick missed two.

“Told you,” Ice said.

He squeezed the trigger one last time, knocking down his final target. It set off an alarm and brightly flashing lights.

“Dammit,” Maverick said. “All right, mark your calendar: I am admitting defeat.”

Ice didn’t move; he stood, unblinking, in the face of the lights. The carnival worker brought over a stuffed rabbit, and handed it to Ice. He stared through it.

Maverick frowned. “Ice? Hey, Ice?” Ice didn’t move. Maverick placed his hand on Ice’s shoulder, asked softly, “Tom?”

Ice jumped, whipped around to face Maverick. His eyes were dilated; he was sweating.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

Ice wiped at his brow. “Fine.” He snatched the bunny from the carnival worker, and thrust it into Maverick’s hands. “Let’s go.”

***

It had been difficult for Ice to carry the stuffed rabbit with his crutches, Maverick thought; that had been the only reason he had given it to him. He pondered this while looking into the creature’s beady black eyes; he had made the mistake of bringing the thing to work and setting it on his desk, and now he swore it was staring at him.

A soft rap on his door broke his concentration. Hollywood shadowed the doorway.

Maverick rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Come in.”

Hollywood ambled over to the desk. He presented a small stack of forms.

“Hey, boss, just need your signature on a few things.”

Maverick started signing.

“You been watching these boys?” Hollywood asked. He picked up the stuffed rabbit from Maverick’s desk, turned it over in his hands. “I think that Cobra’s gonna take the whole thing, what do you think?”

“My money’s on Razor,” Maverick said absently.

Hollywood gave the rabbit a little squeeze. “What’s this doing on your desk?”

“I, uh, fair’s in town.” Maverick remembered Ice’s face when he’d won the damn thing, and a light bulb went off in his brain. “Hey, ’Wood. What do you know about shell shock?”

Hollywood shrugged. “Not much. Why? You thinking about Kazansky?”

“No, I just—why? What have you heard?”

“Just stories, man.”

“About him being—”

“About his time in the Gulf. Some heavy shit.”

Maverick handed Hollywood his forms back, all signed; Hollywood handed Maverick the bunny. Maverick looked into its reflective eyes.

“Yeah, heavy,” he said. “Thanks, ’Wood.”

***

Maverick caught up with Ice at the end of the day.

“Hey, Tom,” he said gently. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Ice waited. Maverick sweated.

“I, uh—look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you should, you know, just think about . . .”

“Yeah?”

Shit. Fuck shit dammit. “Can I come over tonight?”

Ice smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Maybe we could get a pizza or something, watch the game.”

Ice grinned. “And here I thought you were just using me for sex.”

He did use him for sex. Maverick spent the time between leaving TOPGUN and arriving at Ice’s house to psych himself up for a _Tom, about this not being okay thing_ talk, but as soon as Ice let him in, dressed down in sweatpants, a wife beater, and bare feet, that all fell through. Instead, they ate pizza and drank the beer of mysterious origin, and made love on Ice’s couch during halftime.

After the game was over, Maverick started to collect his things, but Ice gave him such a look that he came back to the couch, ready for round two.

“No school tomorrow, teach,” he said softly. “Maybe you should stay.”

Maverick waited for Ice to get up on his crutches, and then walked with him down the hall.

***

They stripped down and climbed into the bed, side by side. Ice brushed a loose strand of Maverick’s hair from his forehead. He kissed him, met his eyes.

“You wanna do it the other way?” he asked softly.

Maverick frowned. “The other way . . . ?”

“You on top.”

Yes. God, yes, did he.

Ice arranged himself on his belly, a pillow under his hips, while Maverick pawed through the bedside table for condoms and lube. He prepared Ice, greased himself, and then pushed home, his hands gripping Ice’s hips.

Ice cried out; Maverick froze.

“Too hard already?” he asked. “I can slow down.”

Ice’s voice was shaky. “No, I—my hip, you idiot.”

Maverick withdrew his hand like he had touched something hot. “Right. Sorry.”

He placed his hand on the small of Ice’s back, instead, and started an easy tempo. Ice arched into the pillows at the head of the bed, sighing quietly as Maverick moved within him. Soon, he began to thrust into the pillow cradling his hips, his sighs becoming moans. The sight of him, the sound, and the incredible sensation of being buried inside him soon drove Maverick over the edge and he came, crying out and collapsing over Ice’s back. Ice came a moment over and for a long time they just rested like that, nested against one another.

***

Maverick woke to the first rays of morning sun peeking through the window to find Ice still curled against him, his face placid and open. He thought about leaving; he was getting the feeling that this was turning into something bigger than he could handle.

He stayed. He watched Ice sleep until Ice woke—easy this time, not like the last time he’d spent the night—and then he pressed Ice to the mattress and kissed him. They wrestled around for a bit, tangling the sheets around themselves; eventually, Maverick got Ice pinned.

Maverick suddenly felt uneasy; now that he had Ice pinned, he wasn’t sure what to do with him. He felt precocious, conspicuous. These were not things he was used to feeling, and they wore clumsy on him.

“Um, last night was . . .”

Ice smiled. “Yeah. I liked it, too.”

“Oh. Uh, good.” He glanced over his shoulder, toward the bathroom. “I’m, uh, gonna—I think I’ll take a shower.”

Ice sat up, brow creased, as Maverick beat a hasty retreat.

“Okay,” he said uncertainly.

Maverick stopped dead in his tracks upon reaching the tub.

“There’s a chair in your shower.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ice said. “Just remove it; it lifts right out.”

Maverick mentally kicked himself as he pulled the chair out; of course, Ice couldn’t stand for a shower. God, would he ever miss an opportunity to stick his foot in his mouth?

Maverick closed his eyes and let the hot water wash over him. He had fucked him. He had fucked Ice. They had fucked each other. And Ice clearly had problems; this was like a runaway train, going too fast on a track that maybe he didn’t even want to be on in the first place.

Maverick shut off the water and toweled himself off. He walked back into the bedroom, scanning the floor for his discarded clothes.

“Listen,” he said, bending to pick up his pants, “Ice, I . . .”

He trailed off. His underwear was on the bed, over Ice’s shoulder. Maverick knelt on the mattress, bent over Ice to retrieve them. Ice let his hand rest gently on Maverick’s shoulder, fanned the other through Maverick’s damp hair.

“I can’t believe you took a shower,” he said. “What if I wasn’t done ravishing you?”

Maverick’s brain was hard at work formulating a cutting reply, but then Ice smiled, the same smile from back on the aircraft carrier, when he’d told Maverick he could be his wingman. A genuine, open smile.

Maverick felt his knees go weak. And his resolve. He fell into Ice’s arms.  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	5. Chapter 5

The session was nearly over; it looked like Ice would be on crutches for the awards ceremony. Maverick remembered what Ice looked like in his dress whites, and his mouth watered. God, this was a bad, bad idea. And he just kept sinking deeper.

Maverick heard Ice before he saw him; the crutches had a distinctive cadence on TOPGUN’s linoleum floors.

“I think Razor’s going to win,” Ice said as he entered Maverick’s office. “Do you have today’s scores yet?”

“Razor by two points. Could still be Cobra, though; there’s a couple days in the air, yet.”

“It’ll be Razor,” Ice said, sinking into a chair.

“I think so, too.”

Ice glanced at the stuffed rabbit on Maverick’s desk, but didn’t say a word about it.

“Dinner tonight?” he asked instead.

“Sure,” Maverick said absently.

“Come by my place, eight,” Ice said, pulling himself up onto his crutches. “I’ll cook.” He paused at the door, studied Maverick’s face. “You okay?”

Maverick snapped to attention. “Huh? Yeah, fine. Your place, eight.”

***

Dinner was already done when Maverick arrived. Ice showed him in, ushered him to the kitchen. The wheelchair was propped against the wall; Maverick frowned at it.

Ice noticed his expression. “It’s too hard to cook on crutches, so I used the chair. Help me set the table?”

Dinner was linguine and clams, and it was good. Maverick ate too much and drank too much wine, and after they were done eating, he did Ice’s dishes in the low sink. Afterwards, they took the rest of the wine into the living room. Ice turned on the TV and then immediately turned his back to it, climbing into Maverick’s lap. He put his arms around Maverick’s neck and kissed him, nice and slow, tasting sweet and fruity and dark like the pinot noir.

Maverick tried to get lost in sensation, but then a cop drama came on TV, cruisers rushing through the streets, sirens blaring. Ice froze, going pale.

“Ice?”

Ice blinked druggedly for a moment, then went back to kissing Maverick. His hands were shaking, though.

Enough. Maverick pulled away.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“I told you not to do that,” Ice said mildly, nipping at his jaw line.

“Huh?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He sighed. “You really want to talk now?”

Maverick stared him down. Ice sighed again and slid off Maverick’s lap.

“Okay,” he said. “So you’ve been thinking.”

“I was thinking that you should . . . maybe . . . oh, fuck it. You need help, Tom.”

Ice blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“This shell shock thing. Look, I’ve been looking into it, and I’ve made some calls, and there are people that can help you.”

Ice’s jaw tensed. “You’ve made some calls. On my behalf.”

“Yeah. I—”

“The fucking balls on you. It’s my goddamn business, Mitchell. You had no right.”

This was not going how Maverick had imagined. “I was trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You need somebody’s help, you stubborn prick.”

“You have no idea of what we’re talking about. You made some calls. You haven’t been out there—”

Maverick felt himself flush. His hands balled into fists. “I’ve seen combat!”

Ice snorted. “A decade ago. For the last ten years, you’ve been holed up in your cozy office, flying a desk.”

“Fuck you, Kazansky. Get the fuck out of here! Go!”

Ice growled. “This is my house, you stupid fuck.”

Oh. Shit. He was right. “Yeah, well—fine. I’ll go.”

“I wish you would,” Ice said. There was no anger in his voice; he just sounded tired.

Maverick left.

***

Maverick slept alone. Or rather, he didn’t sleep, tossing and turning, mentally kicking himself. Ice was right. It was Ice’s business. When Ice had pried into his affairs after Goose’s death, he had been furious. This was no different.

He got to work ready to apologize, and found Ice steadfastly avoiding him. The fucker ran on crutches; how was that even possible?

Maverick let him go.

***

The days passed. It was the day of the awards ceremony, and Ice was still dodging him. Maverick, in his dress whites, finished up with paperwork and started out the door to pick up the plaque; Razor had indeed taken it, beating out Cobra by three points.

There was a problem, though. Ice, looking frosty in his dress whites, was crowding the doorway.

“You don’t have to go to the ceremony,” Maverick said, avoiding eye contact. “I know it’ll be a lot of standing for you.”

“Fuck you,” Ice said. “I’ll be fine.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment.

“Can I come in?” Ice said finally.

Maverick shrugged, but he backed up enough to let Ice in. Ice closed the door behind him, crutched in. He took a deep breath, released it slowly.

“I’m sorry I threw you out,” he said finally.

Maverick was surprised, but relieved. “That’s okay; I kind of threw myself out.”

“Yeah, you did. Look, Maverick, this is still none of your goddamn business—”

Maverick fanned his hands in surrender. “I know. Look, Iceman—”

“Just let me finish, will you?” Maverick shut his mouth. Ice continued, “It’s none of your goddamn business, but maybe you’re not wrong. I’m not okay.”

“Yeah, well—”

“I said shut up. I’m not okay, and maybe I should get some help. So I made an appointment with a doctor that looks into that kind of thing.”

Maverick grinned. “That’s great, Tom.”

Ice smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, well.” He studied his shoes. “And I’ve been thinking . . .”

“Dangerous occupation,” Maverick said.

“Yeah, well, you’d know all about those. Anyway, I think that maybe it might not be the worst thing in the world to take a little more time off. You know, not stay out of a plane, just stay off the battlefield for a while.”

“You have a career in mind? Crop duster? Commercial airline pilot?”

Ice looked up, eyes narrowed. “You son of a bitch. You know perfectly well—”

“Oh!” Maverick said, feigning surprise. “You were thinking of staying at TOPGUN.”

“Top Gun is guaranteed a teaching position, should he want one,” Ice said.

“And you want one,” Maverick urged.

Ice gritted his teeth. “Are you going to make me say it?”

“Yes, I think that would be appropriate.”

Ice straightened his spine attention upright. “Lieutenant Commander Mitchell, I am requesting transfer to TOPGUN.” He chanced a small smile. “I’d salute, but y’know.”

He nodded to his crutches.

Maverick was unable to contain his grin. “I think we can find a spot for you. You’re a good teacher, a gifted pilot—”

Ice grinned. “And I look really good in this uniform.”

Maverick tugged gently on one of the buttons on Ice’s shirtfront. “And that.” He spoke softly, “And I don’t hate having you around.”

Ice looked surprised, but pleased. “Thanks. Turns out, I don’t hate being around.”

“Around TOPGUN?”

“Around you.”

Maverick glanced quickly to make sure the door was closed, then fisted Ice’s shirtfront, pulled him close and kissed him.

Ice was smiling when they broke for air. “Plus, this job’s got great benefits.”

“Dental?”

“Yeah, Mitchell, that’s what I meant.” He kissed him soundly before turning to go. “I’ll see you around.”

Maverick watched him go. Yeah, he would.  


  


  


  


  


  


  



End file.
